


Nice Try

by Fae-and-night (goodgirlgonegeek16)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Sam Harvelle - Freeform, Teenchesters, but we will find our way back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4597344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirlgonegeek16/pseuds/Fae-and-night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester "died" on November 2nd, 1983 with his mother. It's been 17 years, and Dean and John are just beginning to close in on what killed them. When they need someone to track it, Bobby sends them to Harvelle's Roadhouse, the home base of two boy geniuses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Nights In White Satin

Castiel watches the moment play out, allowing time to slowly swirl around him; his very molecules vibrating too fast for human eyes to see.

The house is flaming, the origin somewhere in the infant’s room. A small child runs out of the house with a tiny bundle of blue blanket and pink skin stirring in his arms.   
Once they are a distance away, the boy stops and watches his home burn. “It’s okay, Sammy,” his little voice reaches Castiel’s ears, as the angel peers over his shoulder to look into the face of the bundle. Large hazel eyes stare back at him from under wisps of brown curls. It doesn’t surprise Castiel, considering what the babe had imbibed minutes ago, but it startles him; the look is far too familiar. Castiel thinks that perhaps the child already possessed unique attributes.

Glancing away from the mysterious little package and his brother, the angel sees John Winchester at the threshold of his ruined home. This is the moment that he must act, he realizes. He must not allow John Winchester to take hold of both children, for he knows it would be nearly impossible to separate them thereafter.

Castiel quickly stoops down and scoops the babe out of his brother’s arms, just as the father is upon them. He tries desperately to stave off the squirming suspicion in his Grace that his orders are wrong. He neutralizes the father first, then the son. He removes the memories of John Winchester putting Sam in Dean’s arms, Dean’s memory of standing in the yard and holding the only thing that could possibly keep him calm in his arms. He constructs new memories in their places.

 _…John heard Dean calling him and hollered at him to run outside as fast as he could. Dean ran out of the house, confused, scared, and hoping with all his little heart that Mommy and Sammy were okay. John watched his wife burn on the ceiling and flaming debris fall around and over the crib along with the still crying infant inside_ (Castiel can’t bring himself to construct a memory of a burning child). _John pulled at the wreckage, fingertips blistering and nails breaking, until the wailing has quieted and he can barely see. The man ran out of the house, smoke in his lungs and burns on his hands from clawing at the debris. He clutched his son, his only family left, and hurried to the Impala…_

Castiel leaves, knowing how this moment will play out and not willing to watch the remaining Winchesters shatter.

The next moment, he stands on a hill and stares down at the Campbells’ base camp, what they call a home. The hunters here are efficient, clinical about how they go through life. The hunt is literally the family business, and everything they do from the moment they can hold a weapon is for the greater good. The Campbells are good soldiers; they are righteous.

The angel looks into the face of the babe once more. His eyes are still opened wide; however, now it is not inquiry but alarm that they are expressing. He is without his family, his home. Castiel looks into his frightened eyes and feels pity and compassion. The child needs love, not the reserved fondness he will receive here. He reasons that any hunters will do for the child, not necessarily these. He is not disobeying orders, as long as they are hunters. The Campbells, the child’s extended family was simply the most logical choice. Castiel does not feel exceptionally logical in this moment.

He thinks of hunters he has heard praying, for they must pray to house such an important child; Sam must be important to warrant direct contact with any angel, though Castiel is not sure of how. Jim Murphy prays, but he is close to John Winchester. That would not do. Perhaps Pricilla McFarlin? No, she will retire soon, and the child must be raised a hunter. Wayne Courage? No, he will be killed by a poltergeist hours later in Jerusalem. William Harvelle? Ah, yes. He and his wife are righteous, despite their recent purchase of an alcohol selling establishment. William longs for children, though his wife remains slightly reluctant. Castiel stares into Sam’s troubled eyes and is certain her will would bend.

Castiel appears in front of the bar, surveying the area. The night is in full swing, as the bar sings with life. Castiel nods to himself, sure the babe would be discovered before the cold could touch him; he even heard the sound of an engine nearing the establishment. He places the bundle on the step where no one would tread on it and soothes the babe with a soft stroke of his Grace.   
“ _Fear not, Samuel Winchester_ ,” he murmurs in Enochian, the ancient tones soothing down to Sam’s very soul, “ _for my Father is with you. I am with you, and no harm will come to you. His plan is unknown to us, but I am certain it is just. Fear not, child, for I will come when you call_.”

Castiel is unsure what it is that endears this child to him, whether merely curiosity in his fate or the beautiful, keen glow of his soul, but he feels solemnly bound to protect Sam Winchester.

When he travels back to his home, he is directed to a plain white room, where another angel awaits him. She dons a severe bun and a callous, disapproving face, as she confines him to a metallic, alarmingly clean bench. “You must always meddle, mustn’t you, Castiel?”   
That is the last thing he is fully aware of, before she sinks a thin drill into his brain. His memories are carefully sifted through and hidden away, leaving another of Heaven’s question less soldiers in his place.


	2. Chapter One: Turn the Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets up with Bobby's dream-team.

Dean stretches out his limbs, scanning over the endless expanse of wet grass and the charcoal ribbon of highway. Another night sleeping in the Impala, another whiny back the next morning. The young hunter sighs, watching the early morning steam billow off his lips. He loves his baby, but since he hit the six-foot mark, sleeping in the back isn’t exactly a piece of pie. Especially not with the chilly Nebraska fall creeping up around her.

Dean sighs again, remembering why exactly he is in the “cornhusker” state: a new research team. He’s supposed to meet up with his dad at a place called Harvelle’s Roadhouse, their base of operations, apparently. It’s an ordinary hunter dive, run by a retired hunter Ellen. Dean’s heard of the joint a couple times, but never rolled through it. No bar brawls tolerated. Serves a mean steak burger. Their Hopskin’s beer is the best kept secret this side of the Mississippi.

Caleb really loves the place, always saying it had a certain charm; he promised to take Dean one day after he was legal.   
_“Wish I could take ya now,” Caleb said, after they’d toasted a Nebraskan wendigo, “but Ellen’d skin me for trying. No minor patrons passed such-and-such line, and she don’t bend that rule, bucko. Not even for a stud like me.” The older hunter grinned and flexed his arms, clapping Dean on the shoulder when he rolled his eyes._

Dean smirks at the memory, then snorts, _Guess she doesn’t mind havin’ kids_ **work** _in the bar_. Bobby told him that his researchers were **_young_**.

 _Young, bright, and un-B.S.-able_. He even went so far as to call them the “progenies,” which was basically giving them the Singer stamp of **don’t-question-my-wise-and-inscrutable-judgment-ya-idjit** approval.

Dean still doesn’t like the situation, wishing once again that Bobby could just give them a hand. Unfortunately, the gruff, older hunter has a buddy of his he needs to bail out (werewolf hunt gone sideways), so he’d be unavailable for a while.

These boys were their best shot, and now that Dad had **_really_** found the trail this time, neither Winchester wanted to lose it.

Dean closes his eyes, leaning back on the Impala’s dew-damp door. A demon. The thing that killed Mom and… Sammy was a freaking **_demon_** , and Dad had finally, finally got a lead on the sucker: their family hadn’t been the only one partially wiped out. Five other babies and parents had burned, along with seventeen other infants, and hundreds of omens all had appeared around the same time.   
_That fugly had a plan,_ Dean thinks to himself, knowing none of this seems random. As much as Dean wants to just gank the thing and call it revenge, he feels in his gut that there’s something more to it than just normal demon douchery. Well, whatever it is, it’ll have to wait for the geek-squad to figure it out; Dean certainly isn’t going to waste his time chewing on that bone until he’s got more information.

Finally working one last pop out of his back, Dean slouches back into the Impala, and the ever-present ache of his loss gets pushed back to a corner of his mind. His boot sinks to the floorboard, and Dean lets his baby loose on the barren highway, knowing he’s got around seventy miles to the next diner. His calloused fingers feel for the tuner knob on the radio, and they twist it clockwise for a few seconds, skipping past country after country station.   
The young hunter grumbles to himself how no one listens to decent music anymore, until he finally finds a classic rock DJ. “Thank God somebody’s still got decent taste,” he mutters to himself, even if it is only soft rock. Dean still belts the ballads and poppier cords as he drives, tapping the beats against the steering wheel every once in a while.

He finally sees the sign announcing his latest breakfast gamble ( _Quick, stale chain drive-through, or slow-moving but worth the wait, mom-and-pop diner?_ ), when a familiar song croons over the airwaves, making the driver clench his fists around the wheel. The Beatles soft melody of “Hey, Jude” washes over the Winchester like an icy breeze; the song that once held so much comfort now only reminded him of the two people he’d loved most, the two people he’d lost. The life and family he lost chime through the music.

............                                            

John completely shattered after the fire, never to mend entirely back together. He drank and drank, remembering the way the fire had pushed at him, surged after him, urging him away from his wife and his baby. He was haunted by Mary’s silent scream on the ceiling and Sammy’s wails; the sight of her eyes and Sammy’s desperate sounds were both muffled by thick plumes of smoke and the roar of the fire, but they relentlessly flashed behind his eyes and rang in his ears. Everything reminded John of what he had lost: the love of his life, his youngest baby boy, and even Dean.

Yes, Dean was as beyond John’s reach as the rest of his family was; neither the father nor the little boy was ever the same after that night, especially with each other.

Dean’s silent, searching stares followed John wherever he went. The child wouldn’t speak at all and barely made any sounds throughout the day; his little mouth never opened in front of strangers, and his once lively bursts of energy and joy were gone. He was always still and quiet, except the dead of the night. Night terrors ripped through the little boy almost every night, which led to tiny whimpers and deep, rattling sobs; but still, never any words.

Dean wouldn’t even speak for the sake of his father, though John begged and pleaded with him.   
_Say something, Dean. Say_ **anything** _, son. I’ll do anything, Dean, just_ **please** _talk to me._   
The little boy would only clench his little fists like he was trying to grasp something that was no longer there. He would only look up from the floor and stare at John with wide, accusing eyes.   
_Why didn’t you save them? Why are you here, and they’re not? Where’s my mommy? Where’s my Sammy? **Why didn’t you save them?**_

Every time John looked at him, it was a slap in the face. He couldn’t bear it.

Trying to escape the horrible echoes and Dean’s silent accusations nearly lost John his son. Mike, the man he’d opened up his garage with, and his wife Kate, a member of Mary’s book club, had taken the two Winchesters in. For months, they’d watched John self-destruct and Dean shrink into himself. Finally, after Dean’s birthday had passed without so much as a twitch from either Winchester, they decided that something had to be done.

Coincidentally enough, fate had apparently come to the same conclusion.

John had wandered into a psychic’s home that day, led there by a kindly, retirement-age detective who knew the kind of pain John had needed an answer he couldn’t give. The detective sent John Winchester to Missouri Moseley, and there he learned the truth. After taking his hand and listening to his story, Missouri broke it to him gently, a sad little smile draped across her face. She told him about the creatures that stalked the nights and why humans must fear the dark. She gave him answers, answers that only lead to more questions; they all swirled silently, rapidly through John’s mind, flitting in and out of focus like quicksand, while Missouri mildly continued with her lesson. He stayed at her house and listened to her for hours; John sat there on her couch, fully sober for the first time in months and in a daze of fear and anger.

Finally, when her teapot was empty and twilight kissed the landscape outside, she sent him to his son.   
“I think you ought to stay with me for a little while, Johnny,” she told him quietly, “’til we can find you and your boy a safer place.”   
John’s face leached a shade paler, “Dean’s not safe with Mike and Kate, is he?”   
Missouri shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid you boys aren’t safe in Kansas, honey. But don’t chu worry about that now, you just go get your son.”

John didn’t tell Mike and Kate about his plans; they had gone out under the pretense of a date night, but had actually gone to meet with Brenda Barlow, the town’s lone social worker. John, completely unaware of this, simply packed up his belonging and his silent son into the impala and drove away.

It was the final goodbye John and Dean said to their old life in Lawrence.

…………

“ _That was one of our favorites here on Radio FAVD. The dogs here in Fairwood love those cool Beatles sounds, am I right? Awwooh!_ ”

Dean starts from his thought, as the disc jockey howls through the radio. Dean shakes his head and switches off the radio in disgust. They must’ve switched DJs when he wasn’t paying attention.   
“I definitely would have remembered a douche like that,” he mutters. He fumbles around the passenger seat for his cassette tapes, zooming past the diner’s exist. Dean doesn’t care about the lost opportunity for greasy food and cheap flirting; he’s suddenly not in the mood for either.

He sighs in triumph at finding ACDC cassette and attempts to loose himself in the jam for the remainder of the drive. Around three hours, one gas stop, and two drive-throughs later (the first guys forgot his **_bacon_** , and a morning’s meeting with nerds just wouldn’t be bearable without his meat fix in the morning), Dean pulls up in front of Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

Honestly, the place looks like it had seen better days. The paint is faded, the porch is missing a few planks, and there’s a bullet hole surrounded by spidery cracks on one of the windows. There’s only one other car in sight, a rusty orange ’68 mustang with faded racing stripes and a busted taillight, and the place is as quiet as a church on Mardi Gras; this surrounding stretch of land goes on for miles without being interrupted by anything other than the Roadhouse.

It looks completely abandoned in the pre-noon light, and nothing screams “shady” like a deserted dive-bar in the middle of nowhere. Dean trusts Bobby completely, but he doesn’t trust this situation; Dean barely trusts anyone at all, and he definitely doesn’t somebody he’s never even met not to try something in a deserted, rundown bar. It doesn’t matter how much he likes the dusty, roughed-up, sturdy look of this dive; he’s not going to walk through the front door like a doe-eyed shmuck.

He saunters quietly around to the back door, shimmying the old lock open without even needing his picks. It’s too easy, and that puts Dean on edge.   
_What kinda place doesn’t even have a decent deadbolt?_ The young hunter draws his gun, keeping it ready for action, but semi-non-threatening at his side (or as non-threatening as a readied firearm can be). If he’s wrong about the place and ends up startling whoever’s behind the door, well, he figures they’ll understand his suspicion. _If they don’t… well, they know hunters; they’ll get over it._

There’s very little noise in the kitchen that the backdoor led him to, just the hum of the industrial refrigerator and freezer. There are a few dishes littering the counter; an open bag of pretzels lies on the cold stove.   
_At least_ **somebody** _’s been here recently_ , Dean thinks, which both reassures him and puts him on edge, _Whoever it is, they’re probably still in the building_.   
He skulks through the room and comes out beside the bar, pausing in the threshold; it’s entirely silent in the main part of the building.

He inches forward, scanning the room for occupants. It’s eerily shadowy and empty; the only light is a sunbeam falling through a broken set of blinds. Just when Dean begins to straighten his stance and relax onto a stool, deciding to wait by the bar until somebody finds him, he’s blindsided by a tangling tackle of long limbs.

_Knew I needed to worry about the front!_

The pistol in Dean’s hands is knocked away with very little effort on his attacker’s part, the sneak. Dean tries to wrestle the guy off him with an elbow to his ribs, while the Winchester fumbles with his boot, thumbing inside it for his knife. _Wish I’d strapped the Bowie on this morning_ , flits through his mind, when his assailant uses his distraction to shoulder him to the floor. The guy’s pretty competent and seems to be all hard, bony angles, but Dean’s got his knife at his throat as soon as his back hits the floor.

In an unspoken truce, they both pause to blink at each other in the dim light, assessing.   
Dean blinks hard and blurts his realization, “You’re a kid.” The guy who just pinned him was a **_teenager_** ; that’s going to leave a bruise on Dean’s Winchester pride, no matter how good the kid is.   
The boy makes a sour face at him, tightening his grip on Dean’s shoulder. “And **_you_** ’re trespassing. We don’t open until eleven; that’s a whole three hours away, **_Mister_** ,” he accents the title derisively, before moving. He’s no longer using his body to pin Dean to the floor, but he hangs on to the Winchester’s shoulder, yanking him up.

Once he’s back on his feet, Dean shrugs, feeling the kid’s grip follow his arm up and down with the motion.   
“Yeah, but I ain’t here for the booze, kid; Bobby Singer sent me.”   
The boy looks at him questioningly. “Where is he?” he asks, wide, curious eyes on Dean.   
The hunter senses that this question is probably more of a test than an innocent inquiry, and he’s glad that he’ll be able to pass it. “On a werewolf hunt with Phil Coleman, or Coulson or something like that. I’m Dean,” he answers casually, holding his free hand out to the kid.

Apparently, Dean passes the test. The look on his face clears to a slight smile, and he lets Dean loose.   
“Bobby told us you were coming; I guess he didn’t warn you about that back door, though,” he snickers a little, big dimples blossoming on his cheeks. Dean chuckles and relaxes inexplicably, instantly liking this kid.   
“Nah, but I guess he’s gotta get his kicks somewhere, huh? Not like being an ole recluse can be all that exciting.” They both chuckle again at that, and the kid stretches out his large paw of a hand to shake Dean’s.   
“Probably not,” he agrees happily, shaking his bangs out of his eyes, “I’m Sam.”

The name hits Dean like a punch in the gut just like it does every time he meets a “Sam,” especially a Sam around his Sammy’s age. Vivid green eyes sweep over the kid: tall- just about Dean’s height- shaggy bourbon brown hair, and eyes that seemed to be every different shade of hazel at once.

Dean wonders, the same as he always does, if his Sammy would look like this Sam; the thought is always there in the back of the young hunter’s mind. _What would Sammy look like? What would he act like? Would he be my best friend, or would we get on each other’s nerves all the time? Would he be gearing up for college, or want to work on cars like me?_

Dean would never admit to it, but throughout his entire life, he’d sometimes waste hours trying to picture his brother; he’d spend sleepless nights trying to conjure Sam Winchester in his mind. Dean had thought up hundreds of Sammies over the years. Some had freckles, some wore glasses. Some were super-geeks, and some were rock stars. Some were dirty-blond grease monkeys, and others were dark-haired, emo sketch artists. But every time he finishes putting a Sammy together in his head, it always hits him that he’ll never know if he measured up to the real thing.

It always hits Dean that he will never know **_his_** Sammy.

Sam Harvelle claps Dean on the shoulder. He worriedly watches the older boy from under his fringe; his big hazel eyes earnest and concerned. “You okay, dude? I didn’t think we hit your head too hard?”   
Sam’s comment on the fight tapers off to a question, and Dean shrugs off his daze; it’s not like it’s the kid’s fault or business that he reminds Dean of his brother simply because he exists.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just thinkin’. Bobby said you guys were young, but…” Dean waves his hand at Sam, who just turned sixteen and looks it.   
The brunet frowns a little at the hunter then sweeps his gaze over Dean. Dean’s twenty, but his coating of freckles always makes him look younger than he is; there are only a few little crinkles by his eyes, and those are obviously from laughter. Dean’s face is still fresh and full of life; he doesn’t look a thing like the usual gruff and grizzled hunters Sam sees day in and day out.

He returns Dean’s sizing gesture. “You’re a little young to be a ‘seasoned’ hunter yourself,” the researcher remarks, strolling over to the bar. “Want anything?” asks Sam’s slightly muffled voice, as he bends below the bar and reaches for a soda.

Dean’s brow converges at the offer; he’d been expecting a typical hunter’s welcome, complete with silver knives and “Christo”s. No matter how much this kid might like him, someone “in the know” always has to make sure; even Bobby, a man Dean has known since he was eight, always preforms the standard “holy-salt-water-silver” check on him whenever he stops by Singer Salvage.

“That’s it?” he demands, suspicious of an acceptance that easy, “A little tussle and just like that, we’re good to go? I could be anything!” Sam reappears, eyebrows high on his forehead, before he slides a cola Dean’s way.   
“No, you couldn’t,” the boy informs him calmly, popping the lid off his bottle, “There are devil’s traps, warding runes, and salt lines all over this bar; we check them three times a day. And if you’d have been a shifter, I would’ve found out during our ‘tussle’.” The kid finishes with a shrug and sips out of his drink.

Dean still eyes him skeptically. “And what if I was a shifter? You didn’t look like you were in much of a position to stab me in the heart a minute ago.”   
“That’s why I’m here,” sounds a deep-Southern drawl from the pool tables.


	3. Chapter Two: American Band

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get down to business.

_Dean still eyes him skeptically. “And what if I was a shifter? You didn’t look like you were in much of a position to stab me in the heart a minute ago.” “That’s why I’m here,” sounds a deep-Southern drawl from the pool tables._

Sam turns and strolls to the opposite side of the bar without so much as a backward glance towards voice, snorting a good-natured laugh as he goes. For a second, Dean purses his lips indignantly. It’s not like his instinctive move for his gun was a jump, or anything. The hunter really isn’t in the mood to let this kid laugh at him, but then he realizes the jest wasn’t aimed at him. “Is that right? You didn’t seem all that concerned when Dean had his knife on me,” Sam quips, coaxing the old, reliable (if occasionally finicky) coffee-maker into production.

Across the floor, guy, not much older than Sam, all but oozes off the burgundy top of one of the many pool tables. When he saunters out of the darker section of the bar and into the yellow light from above the bar, Dean raises an eyebrow at the red carpet burn streaking his cheek.

The guy shrugs in response to Sam’s jibe, while he attempts to smooth down the rat’s nest of his blond mullet, “Dr. Badass is always alert and raring to go, Sambo, but I knew ya had it covered.” Sam chuffs a laugh once more, “Whatever you say, Doc.” The youngest man flicks his eyes between the two blonds, “Dean, this is Ash; he’s the other half of your research team. Ash, this is Dean; he and his dad are the hunters Bobby asked us to meet.” Sam sighs at his friend’s blank look, continuing, “Remember? Winchesters? The really important case from Bobby’s go-to hunters? Big boss demon hunt from almost twenty years ago?” When the genius continues to blink at him, he finally tries, exasperation plain in his voice, “The favor we owe Bobby for San Jose?”

Just as Dean begins to seriously question Bobby’s taste in researchers, Ash’s eyes flash with recognition. Dean can practically see the blond’s mind whipping through everything anyone’s ever said about the Winchesters, and he suddenly feels much more confident about this trip. Ash bobs an affirmative in Sam’s direction, as he all but melts onto the barstool next to the young hunter. “Ah, right. Invincible Papa John and his boy vs Big Bad Lemon-squeeze, yeah?” Sam shoots Dean an apologetic look, but nods to his friend. “Yeah, Ash. The Winchesters.” Ash nods, gratefully accepting the steaming mug of coffee Sam slides toward him. The researcher takes a long, soul-soothing sip of the best coffee this side of Columbia (according to his personal experience, anyway), before cocking an eyebrow at Dean.

“So, G. I. Dean-o, what kinda intel you got to offer the Good Database this fine morning?” Dean shrugs, eyeing the steaming mug covetously; the two cups he’d scored at the drive-thrus had both looked, tasted, and had the consistency of moderately cooled crude oil. Dean can actually smell the quality of Harvelle’s batch, and the hunter wonders what it would take to get some off of the kid. He decides cooperating with his hosts is probably the best way to go.

“Not much,” he answers honestly. “I’m a grunt in all this, really. My dad’s the brains of the operation; I’m the muscle,” Dean grins at the two boys, cockily flexing an arm as he pushes back his tawny spikes of hair. Sam frowns, while his soul-searching hazels fix speculatively on Dean’s face. “I doubt that,” he mutters, but before the hunter can so much as open his mouth to respond, Ash sidles back into the conversation. “Whyn’t you go ahead an’ tell us what you **_do_** know; that way at least me an’ Sambo’ll have an idea of what we’re lookin’ for?” the analyst offers, turning on his stool to fully face the Winchester.

Dean glowers at the both of them, always hating to talk about that night… and the months after… and the years after that… Well, Dean hates talking about his sucktastic life in general.

Sam watches as all that pain, despite its still tight, desperate repression, drifts across the man’s face. The boy realizes that despite Dean’s young face, his deep green eyes have the look of someone who has seen too much and felt too much, someone who has known hardships all his life. Sam has seen that look on pretty much everyone who has stopped for help in this bar; he even sees it in the mirror sometimes. So Sam makes up his mind, right then, that he’s going to do his damnedest to help Dean Winchester.

Sam makes his first step by sliding a warm mug of coffee the Winchester’s way; the boy, a bartender in all but title, knows that hot drinks comfort those telling cold, bleak hunting tales. Dean eyes the coffee and glances between the two solemn boys, before nodding.

Dean starts the Winchesters’ story from the beginning, and he tries not to linger there for two reasons; the first because there honestly isn’t all that much to that part of the story. According to the little he could ever get out of his father and the very small part Dean himself had played in it, a yellow-eyed humanoid creature came into their home when the house was asleep and waited for Mary to come in. It slashed a red line through her stomach, pinned her to the ceiling, and started an unnaturally hot, fierce fire; the fire was what had killed Sammy, keeping John from him and sending smoke into his little lungs. The fire is the only real thing he remembers about that night: the flames swallowing the house and the **_heat_** he felt all around him.

The second reason is that it is the most painful part; he doesn’t remember the numbness that has clouded nearly all of the year following the fire, and he can’t recall the exact words John had screamed at him as he had shooed his eldest out of the burning house.

What he does remember is **_that moment_** , when his father held him tightly, the pair of them settled on top of the polished black impala in their driveway. He remembers watching the firefighters stoically, but hurriedly attempting to contain the inferno. Sitting on John’s lap, the scared little boy had realized that there was no one safe in his own little arms and no soft, strong hand pressed against his cheek. He had turned wide eyes toward his dad, and in what would become their way for the rest of their relationship, John’s wrecked expression silently answered Dean’s equally silent queiry.

Dean doesn’t remember what happened after that, but he once overheard Pastor Jim telling Bobby that he had flown into a desperate, heartbroken fit of rage, wailing, screaming, thrashing, sobbing; he’d said the ambulance had had to sedate him.

He doesn’t tell Ash and Sam most of that part, but he has a feeling they (or Sam, at least) hear it in his voice. Dean doesn’t look up from his mug to check very often, but he can practically **_feel_** the weight of Sam’s “you poor, brave little soldier” gaze in between the kid’s near constant note taking. The sound of the pencil scratching diligently against the little detective-style notepad is the only other sound in the room, while Dean sips on his coffee and tells his story. Both researchers keep quiet; the only sound from Ash’s corner is the occasional slurp of the drink and the faint thuds of his fingers tapping against the countertop, itching for a keyboard.

Dean keeps on, going over account after second hand account of everything that had ever related to the case, endless exorcisms and monster interrogations and hours spent pouring through absolutely **_any_** hunter’s stash of information. Seventeen, frustrating years summed up in not more than five hours of a briefing. So Dean just continues sipping and speaking to his mug, memorizing the well-worn stains inside it and the warning chip on its handle. It’s easier to pretend his coffee mug was the only audience to him whine about his life’s (never-ending) story (of crap), than acknowledge his geeky listeners.

After several hours with four and three-fourths cups of coffee, everything Dean knows is laid for the boys to see, and Dean can still taste the lack of real importance on his tongue. He knows, better than anyone, how useless he is with these things, and he hates having it out in the open for the geniuses to see. After seventeen years, all Dean is able to say is that they now know **_for sure_** that the fugly was a demon. Sam continues scrawling on his little pad, heedless of Dean’s growing tension, while Ash finishes gulping down the dregs of his drink. Finally, Sam turns a subdued smile on Dean. “Thanks, man. This was exactly what we’re looking for. Now we’ve got a good, solid base to work off.” Dean’s eyebrows rise; he really didn’t think he’d been that much help.

He opens his mouth to say as much, when the front door to the bar is shoved open. A dark-haired man with grizzly grey stubble tromps into the bar, looking worn and cranky in the way that people do when they’ve been on the road for too long and see no end to it. Ash cuts his eye to Dean before relaxing; given how obviously… **_alert_** Dean seems, his lack of reaction to the newcomer is reassuring.

When he glances over at Sam, it’s a whole other story. The kid’s as tense as a Mexican standoff, and his eyes keep skittering from Winchester to Winchester, widening and narrowing according to his thoughts. Ash knows that look, and he really doesn’t like it, especially so soon in starting a case. The blond programmer considers pulling his buddy aside, but Sam suddenly shakes his head, losing the wild light in his eyes; Ash files the reaction away for later and follows Sam’s lead.

Soon every head in the bar is tilted towards John Winchester, as he trudges his way toward a stool at the far end of the bar. Dark hazel eyes flicker to the other occupants, and he nods to Sam when he spots the pot held in the kid’s hand. “I’ll take one black, thanks,” he grumbles; his tones are low, but surprising lacking in malice or arrogance, and that is the only reason Sam responds to his comment. After taking a long drag from the mug, he clears his throat, making his voice sound slightly less like a growl when he asks, “So which one of you’s Bill’s boy?” Sam straightens behind the bar and dons a small but genuine small, while extending his hand. “That’d be me, sir; Sam Harvelle, and that over there is Ash. He specializes in paper-trails, but I’m more into lore. We’re ready to help y’all any way we can.” The kid sticks out his hand, ready and willing to start this partnership out right, and Ash moseys behind the bar to stand next to his friends with intentions to do the same.

John eyes them both for a long moment before clapping his hand against Sam’s and giving a too hard squeeze, so he can size the boys up. Sam doesn’t flinch, but the friendly light behind his eyes dims a little. Ash doesn’t respond to the rough gesture other than to snort. _So much for off to a_ **easy** _start,_ he thinks, knowing from that little moment on that this job is going to be like pulling teeth, as long as they have to deal with John Winchester.

John follows his “handshakes” with a nod. “John,” he supplies, just as a formality. He’s worked with a good deal of hunters in his time and is fairly well known for being difficult, but he doesn’t want these boys calling him “Winchester” through this whole time. “Been a while, Sam. You sure grew up tall.” Taller than John would’ve expected; the kid had been a pudgy, little roly-poly the last time John had seen him, and Bill had never quite passed the 5’6’’ mark.

Sam quirks a more natural smile, but his best friend watches the shadow of sadness pass through his eyes. So Ash redirects the conversation the best way he knows how: with half-baked humor. “Sure did, John-boy,” breezes Ash, elbowing Sam’s ribs, “Baby-Sam-Sam started growing like a weed a lil over a year ago, and ain’t let off the gas one bit. Ellen’s been wonderin’ if he ain’t been trippin’ into some radioactive waste.” A chuckle rumbles unexpectedly from the elder Winchester, peeling decades away with the barely there smirk, but then it’s gone again just as fast as it came; now that the niceties have been made, business presses its precedence. John plops onto a stool, gulping down the last of the hearty brew. He nods to the mug once he has set it down, his hand already retreating into the large duffle that accompanied him. “Can I get that Irish, or s’it to early?” he asks, still curled around the worn, patched bag; he vaguely recalls Ellen having a rule about when her bar “opened.”

Sam glances at the clock, then shrugs. It’s only half-past twelve in the day, but he’s seen hunters start earlier than that. Normally, neither he nor his mom allows his clients to start that quick in the game, but he could make an exception for an old family friend. John, annoyed by the noncommittal non-answer, sends the kid a “try-again” scowl. Sam lets the sour face roll off of him like water, delivering another shrug. “Doesn’t matter much to me; not my liver,” he remarks, but he shoots in a finger of whiskey anyway. That alone seems to placate the older Winchester. He merely snorts derisively and wastes no time in reaching for the mug, glancing around the joint, as he takes a long, hard pull of stimulant and sedative.

He spots his son all the way at the opposite end of the bar, relatively close to where Ash has parked himself, while Sam hovers attentively behind the bar; the older Winchester can practically feel the barrier between himself and these boys, and for a moment John gets the very distinct clarity of the past staring the future in the face.

He shakes off the oddly deep thought, far deeper than he ever allows himself to get while sober, and nods to his son. “Dean. You made good time.” Dean shrugs one shoulder, unimpressed with John’s attempt at small-talk; neither Winchester really had much patience for it, especially between each other, so Dean sometimes wonders how his father always seems to give it a shot anyways. In any case, it’s not like he made exceptionally great time at all; he had already been on his way to Wyoming when he’d gotten his dad’s message, so it hadn’t taken much extra effort to get to Nebraska in a few hours. Still, Dean decides to humor John. “Pretty good,” concedes he neutrally. John shakes his head, an odd kind of parental exasperation on his face- slightly fond, but mostly disapproving. He remembers the way Dean had started driving, pushing the car to near sonic speeds when he was fourteen, trying to be everywhere at once. True that that had been years ago, but John has little doubt that it’s changed much. “I’m surprised you haven’t burned the tires off that thing, the way you take to roads, Devil Dog.” Dean’s got to admit, the suggestion that he isn’t taking care of his baby stings, but he knows better than to show it, especially in front of their new partners – especially in front of John.

Dean doesn’t think that Sam saw the way his jaw tenses at the barb, the kid’s not even looking at him, but Sam frowns a little, before very deliberately transitioning into his “professional” mode. “Alright, sir,” Sam begins with the prefix, because he sure as hell isn’t going to refer to the legendary/ infamous John Winchester by his first name- no matter if the man himself asks him to, he’s not touching that with a twenty-foot pole just yet. “Dean’s filled us in pretty well, and I believe we’ve got a good foundation from him and the lists of research that Bobby sent over. There’re still a few particulars we need from you, along with any other information you think might be relevant.” At both Winchesters’ questioning eyebrows, Sam grins, “I’ve worked with enough hunters to know that you’ve got to trust people’s guts. If there’s something either of you remember, no matter how off or insignificant, it’ll help us out.”

John nod, setting the last of the worn and frayed books on the counter. “These I’ve picked up here and there, and they’ve had some pretty decent tips, summons, and traps,” he waves his hand at the stack of thick, brittle-looking tomes. Across the bar, Sam’s eyes glint in recognition of one or two of the titles, and the hazel orbs spark with curiosity at the ones he’s never seen before. The next and final thing John pulls from the bag, while nodding at Sam’s courteously questioning incline towards the tomes, is a leather-bound journal. Its cover has bleached from long years of wear and sun, the formerly rich tan now only a sickly coffee cream; its binding almost appears to be on its last legs, stuffed to the brim with anything from newspaper clippings to scraps of ancient linen parchment. “And this is my journal. Alla my theories and research about this thing are in here,” he tells the boys, holding the notebook in one hand and waving it in air like a gospel. Sam’s focus instantly snaps from the tomes with one huge paw hovering reverently over a grimoire with a nasty looking purple creature its cover.

Dean raises an eyebrow at the loosely bound leather book, absently wondering, _When is that thing gonna just give out already,_ as John casually set it on the countertop. Frankly, he thinks that it probably should have fallen apart years ago, and that John must be keeping the thing together with the sheer force of Winchester will. That journal had been nigh on grafted into his father’s left hand for most of Dean’s life that he can remember and definitely all of the time since he started hunting; it was something Dean had always been forbidden to touch, and a constant reminder that there were some things that John would just never speak to Dean about.

That’s why he’s more than a little incredulous that his dad is just going to hand the precious thing over to these geek boys right off the bat, no matter how helpful the kids want to be. John confirms his suspicions when Sam reaches for the journal, quickly slamming his hand down on top of it. The elder Winchester sends Sam a furious warning look. "That’s not yours to be poking your nose in, kid." Thus the pair comes to a stalemate. John, for his part, glares at the kid, as if daring this doe-eyed teenager to challenge his authority, daring him to pull that insubordinate stunt again; Sam just peers incredulously back at him and wonders how John thinks they are supposed to help him, if he won’t even let them access all the information they need.

The silent battle of wills might have continued forever, if the bar door didn’t slide open at that exact moment.

Ash doesn’t jump, but barely manages it; relief floods the hacker at the sudden tension release, realizing suddenly the powder keg he’d just been standing in. The blond looks gratefully towards the door, and his relief intensifies at sight of the matriarch entering the room. Flicking her deep caramel hair away from her face, Ellen lightly kicks the door closed behind her, while a frown settles on her lips at the tense atmosphere of her establishment.

“What’s all this?” questions the matriarch, as she ferries in a large paper bag, quilted shoulder-bag swinging against her hip. Ash flicks his eyes towards the elder Winchester, watching his face loose a bit of its storm. “Ellen,” John grits out in greeting. He leans awkwardly against the bar for a moment, while his regrets wash over his face like mud over a weathered stone; he’s been putting this off far too long, and he doesn’t know how to talk to this woman who was once his good friend- the woman whose husband he got killed. The Winchester shakes himself at the look on her face; while it’s disapproving, there is no trace of true hate in the widow’s eyes. That gives him the justification to bluster on, “Where were you? Bobby said I’d have to get through you before me and the boys could so much as ‘consult’.”

Ellen barely spared him more than an incredulous raise of eyebrow. “Supply run, John; I got a legitimate business to run, ‘case you forgot how the common foke live.” John snorted. “Now I remember where your son got his mouth from.” This was a banter that dated back years; it’s so easy for John to just slip back into it, almost like Bill would be coming in right behind her, joking about the shut door being a hint for him to get lost. The others’ reactions to the casual jibes are immediate. Both Sam and Ash have outrage pinched on their faces, which is only silenced by Ellen’s silent, stern reprimand; from his place at the bar, Dean buries his face in his hand, wishing for once that his father would attempt not to piss everyone off. Dean figures he should be used to it by now, but some part of him never stops hoping that one day John would just learn. Ellen merely snorts at her old friend, before shaking her head at the two teenagers.

“Sam, honey, you and Ash go out back and help your sister unload; I let her pull the truck around on her own, but you know she’s gonna get bored of unloadin’ real quick without company.” Though her son sends her a mutinous look, the boy nods and tromps toward the kitchen, his footfalls for once betraying the noise a growing teenager can actually make. His blond friend tromps after him, shooting John a suspicious sneer that the other man doesn’t see, as he follows Sam. Dean briefly considers following the boys, if for no other reason than to escape the awkwardness of this reunion; however, his father catches Dean’s eyes and shakes his head in a nonverbal order to stay put. The younger Winchester suppresses a sigh, but shifts on his stool into the position that achieves both maximum comfort and inconsequence; Dean’s philosophy when dealing with his dad’s penchant for irritation is to simply avoid notice, rather than get caught up in the impending doom.

He wonders if the effort was useless, as Ellen’s eyes lock on to him at once, assessing him much more clinically than her son had. After a moment, as though her measuring stare had never rested on him, the eldest Harvelle refocuses on John with only a slight smile betraying her assessment of Dean.

“John, mind fillin’ me in on what that little standoff I walked in on was about?” she cuts right past the filler, unwilling to waste any further expenditure on the matter. John scowls immediately, sensing the impending admonishment from his old friend. “Like I said, your boy’s got a mouth on him, and a nose to match it; you need to teach him about sticking it where it don’t belong.” The matriarch’s brow rises incredulously. “You did come here for information, didn’t ya? What good is a uninterested researcher going to do ya? Or are you just threatened by those boys readin’ that precious diary a’yours? S’not like they’re gonna post your classified exorcism rituals online, John. They just want to help you. So you can cut the crap and give my boys a chance, or cut your losses and kiss that demon goodbye.” She comes to a stop in front of the hunter and lays her hand over the bound book of John Winchester’s life, silently daring him not to see sense.

The battered expression of John’s face slowly drains of his indignation, as he stares at the tome under Ellen’s calloused, but still lithe and supple looking hand. The end of his life is scrawled across those pages; the horrid holes in his soul blot every line. Every secret wound to his heart and mind lie on every free space in that book, and not for the first time, he wishes he could burn it- salt and cremate it down to its ashes. As if that could erase the pain, give Dean his childhood and life back, or bring back his soulmate and his most innocent child. He can’t do any of that, though; that book is more than just a part of him, more than a limb to toss away. It’s his legacy, and maybe, someday when the pain has dulled and the secrets become less sharp, he’ll let Dean read it.

“Your boys?” he queries abruptly, drumming up a weak smirk; he’s never heard of this Ash kid, “I wasn’t under the impression you took in strays, Harvelle.” Ellen shakes her head again, as she drifts behind the bar, emptying John’s spiked coffee and refilling it pure. “Took in your rangy self, didn’t we, Winchester? I love Ash like he’s blood; he’s as good as, just like Sam.”

Ellen’s last remark piques Dean’s curiosity, but he decides to let it go, allowing himself to be distracted by John’s sudden smile and gesture in his direction. “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard of my boy,” he states, something akin to pride shining at Dean like a penny in sunlight, “Dean Winchester.” Ellen smiles at the younger Winchester, gliding over to top off Dean’s own much of black caffeinated goodness. “About time you got around to the introductions,” she mutters, still squaring a fond smile the young man’s way. “Good to meet you, Dean,” she tells him, clasping Dean’s hand in the first maternal touch the Winchester has experienced in seventeen years. He curls his fingers around hers with a firm shake.

“You, too, ma’am.” He thinks over to the amazing coffee, the incredible sense of adventure conveyed by Sam and Ash, and Ellen’s warm smile. _Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all… Maybe we’ve got a chance here._ And for the first time in years, Dean hopes.


	4. Chapter Three: I Got a Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get the show on the road: literally.

The night is in full swing, when Sam emerges from nerd seclusion ten hours later; a pleased, dimplily smile lighting on his face. The gangly teen weaves through the strings of tables, booths, and patrons, as the bar hums with the pleasant buzz of a good Friday night. The only reason Dean even spots the kid heading back to the bar is that his new **_friend_** \- Alejandra, mid-twenties, adventurous hunter, very big- erm, heart to match the volume of her mass of curls- has momentarily left their seats near the bar to venture to the lady’s room. Once he glimpses the kid’s overflowing grin, he winds his way back to the bar, hoping that the enthusiasm means the discovery of a lead.

Dean doesn’t find a seat (not a stool is empty on a night like this), but Ellen spots him and waves him over to stand at the mouth of the bar. Sam breezes past him to the functioning area of the bar, already capping the lids off of a few bottles and passing them along to some regulars on that end. Near them sits another pair, who happen to be discussing something intently with John, as each in turn makes some subtle (and some not so subtle) hand gestures to better communicate in the noisy bar.   
John nods at them in a curt agreement before turning to Sam, just as Dean finally manages to sidle beside him.   
“So, kid, what’d you got?”   
Sam’s smile stretches out just the littlest bit more, always loving it when he’s able to tell his partners new information.   
“I need to head to Bobby’s,” he informs the group happily, as the teen nods questioningly at the soft drink in Dean’s hand (Ellen, and her refusal of Dean’s reasoning that he’ll be twenty-one in about a month, had relegated him to cokes for the night).

John Winchester snorts before anyone else can react.   
“You boys spend all day with those computers, and all you got is a beat on a place I already combed through?” condensation palpable in his tone. Dean groans inwardly at his father’s remark. Could the man at least make an attempt not to piss everyone off?   
Sam’s smile sinks into a cool, professional mask. “Not at all, Sir,” Sam says stiffly, removing the file and John’s journal from the crook of his arm and laying it on the counter. “We’ve digitized all of your data, assembled dossiers on everyone related to the case, and set up a surveillance program for omens. If a demon so much as sneezes, we’ll know about it. I also went through all out information on demons and made a list of the best places to find out more. My first stop is Bobby’s; he’s closest.”

Dean can almost see the brainy kid shift into pure research mode, while pads of Sam’s fingers tapping out his points on the counter like so many keys on a piano. “Also, Ash set up a trace for us to figure out where this demon, or group of demons, started showing up on the radar, and we’re working on tracing it further. We do know for sure where the yellow-eyed demon first started whatever it was he was doing on all of the nights in question. But… well, when we tried to trace forward, we noticed something, well, pretty weird.” Sam cuts off suddenly, puppy-ish furrow marring his brow. “Well, we noticed that the demon’s activity- demonic activity in general, has gradually just… stopped.” Sam seems well and truly worried by the prospect.

“Ah, don’t trouble yourself, my boy. I suspect that it is merely our kind succeeding in our good work,” in chimes one of John’s buddies, simple tea resting in his glass. Sam drums up a smile for the regular.  
“We’ve still got Allah on our side, Mak?” The deep coffee color of the man’s skin contrasts starkly with his greying stubble and bright teeth that he bares to the boy.   
“Always and forever, Samson,” he nods, draining his glass. “Winchester, I’ll expect to see you in New Hope when?”   
The elder Winchester nods in reply, answering, “Whenever ya get there, Mak; I’ll be there by tomorrow.”   
Samakab booms a laugh, along with the man on his other side, “Excellent. We’ll make a race of it, and the first man there will win the last watch, agreed?”   
John tilts his head in cocky agreement, and Samakab exits the bar, leaving his companion to the bar.

Samakab’s partner clears his throat. “Samson,” he begins, allowing the boy to refill his wine, “Unfortunately, I do not share the optimism of our dear friend. I would be very interested to see what comes of your… **_study_** of these demonic movements, if you could spare the time to speak of it, my young friend.” Sam nods, a serious frown pursing his mouth; Dean watches the brooding look settle over the kid’s face, as his father and the olive skinned man retreat to a corner table.

The Winchester reaches across the bar to smack Sam’s shoulder, sliding onto one of the vacant seats. “Hey, Brains, lighten up! Why don’t ya grab a stool and fix yourself a Shirley Temple or somethin’? You could regale me with your idea of just how ya plan to get to Bobby’s, being the wheelless wonder that you are.”   
Sam rolls his eyes at Dean, despite the shrug of his shoulders. “Guess I’ll just borrow Ash’s car; getting a new case always keeps him locked up in the _Situation Room_ for days, so he won’t need it until I get back to school,” he ends with an amused quirk to his mouth.   
Dean wrinkles his nose, as he thinks about the older brain’s… car.   
“You talking about that P.O.S. ‘Stang out in front? Nope, kid, I can’t let you do that. It’s our job you’re working, so I’m not about to letcha risk your scrawny ass on our account.”   
Sam’s face contorts, lips pressing into a thin line. “What, are you gonna chauffer me to Sioux Falls then, Winchester? Cuz other than that, I’ve got no chance of getting to Bobby’s information before fall break ends.”

Dean shrugs, “Sure, I could deliver you out to the Dakotas; not like I got s’more pressing leads at the moment.”   
That brings the kid up short. “Aren’t you going with your dad? I thought you guys had a case in New England?”   
The Winchester shakes his head; John hadn’t so much as looked at him when he’d hit up Surya and Isiah about their djinn hunt. And besides, the kid was traipsing from library to library on their case, so it wouldn’t hurt to at least cart him around a little. “Nah, I got nowhere to be until the next hunt comes up.” That puzzles Sam, but he lets it go, reaching to refill Dean’s soft drink. While his back is turned, he hears the distinctive click of a glass hitting the bar behind him.

“Hola, hijo. Why don’t chu put that on my tab, and get me another cerveza, por favor?”   
The boy behind the bar twists to grin at the woman over his shoulder. “Coming right up, ma’am!” he chirps, easily dodging the swat she aims at his head to retrieve a bottle.   
Alejandra mutters a gentle curse, then turns to Dean with a smirk. “I wondered if I had scared you away, bonito.” Dean grins at the challenge in her voice.   
“Sweetheart, I don’t scare. ‘Specially not of a girl like you,” he asserts, scanning his bright greens down and back up her figure. Delivering their drinks in passing, Sam snorts, as he crosses to another pair.

When he makes his next pass, Dean catches his eye.   
“I’ll see ya in the morning, kid,” he affirms, looking back at the woman beside him with a grin, “but not too early.” Sam masks his smirk with a scratch of his nose, but nods. The bar still has other patrons, and the night has many more hours; Sam has more important things than watching Dean’s attempt at flirting.

Still, he can’t help glancing at his new partner every now and then through the night, trying not to over-think the fond amusement he gets out of watching Dean trying to woo his friend.

\-------------

The next morning starts off slow and a bit late, but Sam’s not in any rush; he’s got a nice long weekend ahead of him, and he has a feeling that Dean’s driving will get them to Sioux Falls in no time flat. So he eats his Wheaties in silence, smirking a little at the other late risers beside him; Ash nurses a Virgin Mary that matches the bloodshot of his eyes, munching half-heartedly on a celery stalk, while Dean broods into his coffee and toast with a bleary, zombie-like stare.

His attempt with Alejandra had gone as well as Sam had expected, as the girl was an “only when I’m in the mood and never before our fifth meet” kind of customer; Dean had accepted it gracefully enough, after he extracted a promise from the woman to meet up again sometime. Dean had ended up spending the night in the back room of the bar, the one specifically meant for stray hunters, while John had lit out in the wee hours of the morning for New England.

The thought of the older Winchester brings Sam’s mind back to the quandary he’d found himself in yesterday.

Sam had been all set to help the Winchesters, enthusiastic more than his usual professionalism to do a favor for Bobby, especially something as wide scale as this hunt; but when he set eyes on John Winchester, his blood ran cold. The researcher had only needed one more glance at Dean and those weirdly familiar green eyes, and his strange affinity for Dean made more sense and yet less. It was **_them_** \- the little boy and the haunted man he’d been dreaming about since forever, his first vision within a dream and without.

All Sam’s life, he’s had... the Sight. It started with dreams when he was very young; they were dreams of a pair of strangers, an increasingly grizzled man and a freckle-faced little kid. He still has them, every once in a blue moon, but he’d wondered, after he’d gained a semblance of control over the visions, who they were. Yesterday had given him the answer, though Sam feels just as far from solving the mystery of why as ever- if not more so. When he’d looked into John’s intense dark eyes, Sam had realized that he knew far more about the Winchesters that anyone would ever know; he’d been with them his whole life, and the first dream he’d ever had was of Dean, a shaky eight-year-old, throwing matches into a salted grave.

Sam had seen their lives flash before his eyes more times than he could count. The first time he’d ever seen Bobby was in a vision in which he’d given a large dusty tome to the grave man from so many of Sam’s other dreams. Sam saw many things, past, present, and future- moreover, he **_felt_** them. He’d felt the crackle of the air before a thunderstorm two weeks away. Over and over Sam would see parents on the ceiling and be forced to watch as they burned away to ash, blossoming above him like flowers of death and hateful flame. He’d watched Dean and John during midnight hunts, feeling the vibrations of anxious tension and inhaling fresh blood.

Before the name Winchester meant more than a gun, Sam had witnessed someone who must’ve been Dean as a happy child. He’d seen that blond, freckle-faced little boy reach for **_him_** , smiling at with such pure love and joy; when Sam woke from those dreams, it was with silent, secret tears streaming down his face. Those were the dreams he kept to himself, not even mentioning them to Pamela, though she’d really been the key behind his control over his powers.

So what does this **_mean_**? Sam knows that he must be connected to the Winchesters somehow, but he’s lost as to what. He feels as though the answer is so close, evading him every chance it has. Maybe if he could just step away and-

“-Mornin’ brother o’mine!” chimes Sam’s annoying little sister, smuggest of grins singing across her face. Two groans answer her, though Ash and Dean refuse to look at the blonde early bird. Sam himself grimaces, hating to be knocked off a train of thought. “Good morning to you, too, o’plague of mine,” Sam returns; a smirk of his own rises at Jo’s cry of mock-outrage. “I thought Mama taught you how to speak to a lady, Samson!” Sam gives the exuberant blonde a roll of his eyes, but he rises with a mock-bow. “My apologies, ma’am, I’ll try to remember my courtesies in the future,” intones the brother, pulling out a chair with overzealous theatrics. Jo wrinkles up her nose at him, but decides to play along for the fun of it, lowering herself imperiously into the chair. “As well you should,” she sniffs, as Sam pushes in her seat with a gentle care that belies his exasperated teasing.

Jo gives the other boys an equally annoying grin, practically giddy at the sight of the groggy, grumpy males at the table. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty, Romeo!” she chirps and gracefully arches to one side to avoid Ash’s blind swipe. “Too damn early for your sunshiny face,” the hacker snarls into his drink, chomping ruthlessly at the accompanying celery stalk. Jo ignores her friend in favor of watching Dean’s reaction; she’ll be turning fifteen in the summer, and Sam realizes that she’s just the right age to find flirting a tiny bit interesting, but he’s thankful she seems more intent on getting a reaction out of the hunter than anything else. He knows his sister well; annoying someone is far more satisfying than small-talk any day.

Dean grunts back a “Morning,” before diving back into his coffee, seemingly intent on draining the coffee pot before engaging in any real human interaction. Jo frowns a little, disappointed in his lack of response, then turns to her brother. “How long do you think you’ll be gone on your little ‘research trip’?” she questions lightly, trying for curious instead of resentful. She mostly succeeds.

Their mother barely lets Sam have involvement in the hunts he helps with, relegating him strictly to research, though he’d seen more than a few kids, young kids, hunting with their parents pass through their bar more than once. His thoughts flicker to Dean before returning to the point. Jo doesn’t even get the option of joining him in the bookworm game; the closest she’s ever gotten to a hunt was listening to the endless supplies of tales that circulate through their home, though Sam knows she longs for more. Jo desperately wants a connection to their dad’s memory, one that seemed to fade from her a bit more every day. Sam wonders if their mom knows that, and if that’s not why she keeps Jo so sheltered. He hasn’t yet told her that he thinks that might backfire one day; the older brother has seen the dangerous glint in her eyes to many times to believe that she’ll eventually let hunting go. He just hopes that when she finally breaks into the hunting world, she’ll be prepared enough to make it back to them.

Sam shrugs. “Shouldn’t be long. It’ll only take a day or two to get what we need from Bobby’s, but if we have enough time, I might talk Dean into stopping over to that museum outside St Cloud to look up some other sources, maybe visit Barney in Valley City and Ibara in Jamestown after; we could even try and track down Gillie, if she’s still in the area. It’ll probably be better to get as much done as possible, while there’s time.” All told, there’s dozens of places they should go, but Sam thinks that once they hit Bobby’s stash, they’ll have a better idea of the people Sam needs to see about this thing. “We should be back before the week’s over,” the Sam offers, looking at Dean for confirmation.

Dean notices his inquiring look and waves his hand in acquiescence. The Winchester’s already decided to just let the kid be his navigator until he finds something else to occupy him, something low-level to keep him sharp while the nerds do their thing. It could take weeks- hell, months for the boys to hit a break in the case (it took them seventeen years to figure out what the damn thing was, after all), but Dean decides, casually, of course, that he’ll make it a point to stick around the Midwest (they have good coffee, okay).

Dean finally drains the last of his mug, staring mournfully into the empty bottom, before straightening, “So, when do you want to get this show on the road, Hawking?” The boy quirks a smile at his soon-to-be chauffer, “Whenever you feel awake enough to get me to Sioux Falls, Mr. Fairchild.”

\-------------

After the usual barrage of well-wishes and see-you-laters (you never say goodbye to a hunter), the two young men sit side by side in the well-loved Chevy, silent and contemplative; each is lost in his own thoughts, as the low rumble of classic rock filters carelessly through the car. It isn’t until the radio signal begins to flare sporadically that Sam even realizes they haven’t spoken a word to each other since they entered the car. It hadn’t been an awkward silence (this is probably one of the more comfortable quiets he’s ever felt, if he’s completely honest), but Sam’s acknowledgment of it makes it seem thicker.

In an attempt to clear the suddenly heavy silence, Sam tries, “Nice car,” mentally kicking himself. It was probably not one of his better conversation starters, and he really wasn’t all that sure how to proceed with it even if he did manage to start up a conversation; Sam doesn’t know the first thing about cars or their mechanics. He does know that this car is pretty old, having seen similar makes in movies from the seventies and the occasional clunker that various hunters complain about; this car is in the best condition he’s ever seen with his own eyes. So Dean must care for it himself, and that’s got to get them somewhere.

The grin on Dean’s face is the brightest and most honest smile he met Sam. “She’s my baby,” he declares, exuding fondness with a loving pat to the dashboard. Sam can’t help at little smile at the absolute tenderness Dean expresses in those three words. “You obviously take good care of it,” Sam commends, not realizing the can of worms he just opened. “Hey now, you watch your mouth, Poindexter. My baby’s a lady, and you gotta treat her right…” Dean proceeds to lecture on the flippancy people showed for cars now-a-days, much to Sam’s amusement; he continues the lecture seamlessly into a lesson on car maintenance and all the various ways Sam could tune up Ash’s car. “It’s good practice, ya know, for when you get your own wheels. You got to get a feel for your wheels, or they won’t come through when you need ‘em, and then where will your sorry ass be but up-.” Dean recognizes the slightly glazed look on Sam’s face, one that only comes from an overload of too much information. Remembers doing that to the “geniuses” in shop class that thought they’d be getting off easy. The Winchester shrugs his shoulders abruptly, not wanting to pull that on the kid. It had been gratifying during high school when the kids were condescending, but this nerd had been nothing but helpful and non-judgmental throughout this whole ordeal.

For that, he decided to segue into a domain more up the kid’s alley. “So, are you still in school kid, or have you tapped out academically ‘cause it’s just too easy?” Dean inquires with a grin. Sam scoffs. “Too easy? I don’t know how long it’s been for you, old-timer, but high school is a daily struggle.” That comment makes it essential for Dean to prove his superior maturity by sticking out his tongue. “Let me guess, girl problems? Cause the way you spar, I doubt it’s got anything to do with bullies.” Sam’s scoff was smaller this time, a little shyer. “Nah, there’s no romance problems for me. Not that interested in trying, to be honest.” Dean’s brow furrows. “Then why stick around?”

The Harvelle shrugs a little, tucking a stray bang behind his ear. "I have a few friends. I like school. I like learning, having the opportunity to learn. Most of my teachers try to help me out, because I'm 'advanced' but there's only so far they can go within regulations. Ash's always giving me grief about it; says it's more trouble than it's worth. He thinks I should’ve just cut my losses and checked out of high school last year,” Sam shakes his head, a sad frown on his face; Ash always hated school, and he hated that his best friend insisted on dealing with the system. The teen shook his head. “I already skipped a year because of the high school entrance exam, so I didn’t really feel like skipping out on another, ya know? I just wanted to be…” the kid trails off thoughtfully. “… Normal?” Dean tries, knowing the feeling, when you try so hard to be a pretend to be normal and fly under the radar, when all others see in you is different, _weird_ , **_wrong_**.

Sam shakes his head. Nothing about Sam or Sam’s life in normal, and he has accepted that; when he first entered high school, a fourteen-year-old sophomore, he’d longed for _normal_. During his junior year, though, he’d met his friend Meg, and the normal train went out the window; he was so glad that useless yearning had been resolved. “Not really; I just didn’t want to make waves in a college by being one of those boy prodigies or whatever, end up being looked at like a… a freak. I know I’m not ‘normal,’ but that’s okay; nobody’s normal. I mean, you’re not normal, and you’re not a freak.” Dean squirms a little in his seat, uncomfortable with the kid’s frank acceptance; honestly, the Winchester felt like a freak most days.

Grappling for a change of subject (because they were seriously edging into chick-flick territory with this conversation), Dean turns in at a little gas and travel stop. They haven’t been on the road for very long, not more than two hours, but he’s willing to fake hunger to escape a touchy-feely conversation with a kid he’s just met; especially a kid who seems to make him _connect_ - ** _feel_** , something he’s been trying to avoid for years.

Looking at the outside of the shop, he almost turns right back around. There were flowers and wind chimes everywhere, in every color, theme, and size. A few of the spider-cracked windows showcase tentative vines winding out into the real world, and the actual building, or what you could see of it beneath the foliage, was painted in brightly colored sunbursts. It’s exactly the kind of hippie-dippy dive that Winchesters never set foot in, and had he not been trying to escape his feelings, he would step right back in the car and drive, stomach be damned.

The kid exits the car behind him, and Dean turns to gauge his feel of the place. He finds himself a little amused and a little exasperated to see the curious smile on the kid’s face, which only lightens when a shaggy mutt ambles out of the open door to greet them. “You want anything?” the older boy asks, nodding toward the green infested pit stop. Sam raises an incredulous eyebrow, his smile lingering on. “We just ate breakfast an hour ago.” Dean shrugs, a smirk growing at the skepticism in the kid’s voice. “There’s never a wrong time for some road for, professor, or aren’t you a growing boy. C’mon, let’s check out the hippie chow; maybe there’s something edible.” Sam shakes his head, but follows anyways, patting a furry head as he passes.

The inside is worse than Dean would have guessed. Cheerful wood grains spring at him from every flat surface, and it looks like the floor was all purposefully replaced with sod. The few packages of usual travel fare sit in woven baskets, and said packages seem to be things like dried fruit and roasted nuts. Up toward the register, the only remotely modern item in the shack, are more baskets filled with baked goods. Once again, Dean’s instinct to flee the flower-power flares, but the dork behind him makes a pleasantly surprised noise, heading straight for what must be fresh granola. The Winchester shrugs and mills through the wooden shelves, hoping to find something resembling meat. He keeps an ear on the other patrons, a dark-skinned older lady in sturdy work clothes and an ancient looking man with a white braid down his back, as they shook through the usual small town small talk.

Just when Dean finds some actually enticing looking jerky in the back, he hears the conversation take a turn that stops him cold. “Dijja hear bout what happened to those kids up by the river? Heard they got tore up by some kinda rabid c’yote after they washed ashore,” says the woman, scratching some mud off the toe of her boot. The man shakes his head. “Don’t know any c’yote that’d go after sumthin’ that wat’r logged, Cel. Then’gen, haven’t had’t deal with anythin’ different since before your time.”

Bright greens search out keen hazel eyes across the shack, both sets of orbs wide in response to the overheard conversation. Mysterious and freaky deaths, some vaguely unnatural recurring circumstances, and suspicious locals all would set off a hunter’s radar on their own; but together they scream supernatural. So much for a quick research run.

**Author's Note:**

> It was time to move from FF to AO3.


End file.
